Try MISTRESS OF THE STORM,
the third in Terri Brisbin’s sensual trilogy, out now!
Every possible space in the hall of Duntulm Keep
was filled. Many of those who owned land in the surrounding areas
attended the early autumn feast hosted by Davin to meet the men
from Orkney and take their measure. Though invited to sit at table
with him, Duncan declined Davin’s invitation, choosing to sit away
from the guests so he could observe them. It seemed the fires of
hell had left his sense of curiosity intact when they burned away
all the rest, so he listened and learned much about the visitors
from the north.
Greeted as cousins, they were related
to Davin through the marriage of their grandparents or some other
ancestor, and the welcome he gave was warm. Foodstuffs and ale were
plentiful and everyone ate and drank their fill. Ornolf placed a
bowl and cup before Duncan, bothering him every so often so he
would eat and drink. The smoke grew thick as the fires burned
lower, offering heat but not much light. The torches and rushlights
added what they could, but Duncan could see clearly through the
dimness and the haze.
It was a strange effect he’d noticed
the last few months, and served him well in his attempts to watch
and learn. He was studying the similarities in appearance between
Davin and the one called Ragnar when the woman arrived. The room
suddenly grew brighter and the chatter lessened as though everyone
wanted to see her at once.
Nothing she wore was ostentatious, but
the cut of her gown drew every man’s eyes to her body. He could not
identify the material of it, but it draped her curves as though
painted over her flesh instead of being a garment. Duncan noticed
the tightened nipples of her very full breasts as the gown molded
to them and the way it fell into the junction of her thighs. When
she turned to sit down, he and every other man noted the way it
hugged her arse, flowing into the indentation of the cleft and
outlining her strong legs. Watching her move in it, he did not have
to imagine what her body was like—he could see it.
He let his gaze wander over her,
waiting for her to be seated so he could see her face.
Something he had not felt in months
coursed through him in the moment their eyes met. A heat, a need, a
wanting made him ache. Her eyes widened as though she knew her
effect, but she looked away when someone spoke her
name.
Isabel.
Who was she?
What was she?
How could she cause him to feel the
blood heating and rushing through his body when he’d thought
himself empty of such things? Duncan shifted in his chair and
continued to watch as the attention of those gathered began to
drift back to the honored guests. But he realized every man
eventually turned back to watch Isabel.
She’d gathered and arranged her hair in
a way that made her look well bedded. Its black waves accentuated
every move she made and framed the creaminess of her skin
perfectly. It was her mouth that sent waves of heat through him;
her lips were bow-shaped and red as though well kissed. The blush
in her cheeks added to the display—one he could tell was
orchestrated carefully for its effect. Tearing his gaze from her,
Duncan looked at the people she had followed into the
feast.
Strange.
The man and younger woman she’d walked
behind had taken seats much closer to their host, while she
remained farther away. Was she the girl’s maid? Neither of the
women resembled the man in any way for he was as light as they were
dark in hair and eye coloring. Duncan thought the women might be
related based on the frequent glances they shared, cousins
probably, though mayhap even sisters.
But, if sisters, why did they so
clearly separate themselves at table?
The meal continued and Duncan resumed
his perusal, watching her as she ate the food placed before her,
and as she spoke to others, seeming to watch every move made by the
man with whom she’d entered. It was only when she lifted her chin,
gazed up at the ceiling of the chamber and closed her eyes that
Duncan realized he’d seen her before. Searching his memory, he
finally remembered where and when.
In the early hours just as the sun
rose, when unable to sleep, he would walk the battlements of the
keep, gazing down at the sea and the village outside the walls.
Several times in the last months he’d noticed her leaving the keep
just before dawn, and walking to the south beach.
With nothing more than curiosity to
keep his attention, Duncan would watch as she took off her clothes
and flung herself into the water. Her practice was the same each
time he’d watched—dipping twice under the surface of the water and
scrubbing her skin as she did. Then she would plunge down and
remain in the freezing waters until he thought she’d perished. He
remembered several times when he began counting how long she stayed
under the water, wondering if she would rise from it at
all.
Over the months he’d witnessed her
behavior, the changes within him making any tension he felt as he
counted out the seconds lessen—until he’d watched in complete
disinterest, no matter how much he knew he should be
concerned.
Watching the way she tilted her head,
he was reminded of the way she looked up at the sun as she walked,
sometimes struggling, out of the waves. In the earlier times he’d
seen her, he’d thought she might be a selkie or water spirit. But,
lately, he observed her actions from an emotional and physical
distance—until she lowered her head and gazed at him through her
lashes.
That heat seared him again, letting him
feel things he’d not felt in months. Was she a selkie risen from
the sea or some otherworldly creature capable of giving him back
all he’d lost? His moments of disinterested watchfulness were over,
for his body and his soul knew she was more than she appeared, and
his mind knew he must discover her secrets and their link to his
own. Standing, his feet moved before he could think on what words
to say or what he wanted. All he knew was that he wanted . . .
her.
